The desert wind had gone still. It was strange, almost reverent—the kind of quiet that didn't feel empty, but heavy with what had been lost. The sun hung low, a burning disc sinking into the horizon, painting the dunes in shades of gold and blood. Shadows stretched long across the battlefield, touching the motionless forms that dotted the sand.
Even in victory, the land remembered the price.
The crusaders gathered without command. No horns. No drums. Just men and women, knights and healers, soldiers and mages alike, each drawn by the same unspoken duty. The dead could not be left beneath the open sky, not in a place like this—where the sun could strip a man to bone in days, and the wind could scatter his name into dust.
Luke stood at the edge of the field, Saint Cynthia beside him, watching as groups began to dig.
